


the gentleness that comes

by tadok0ro



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 5 Times, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical Temporary Character Death, Immortal Husbands, Joe being an artist and a romantic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25578619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tadok0ro/pseuds/tadok0ro
Summary: Joe's drawn Nicky a thousand times.(Or 5 Times Joe Draws Nicky)
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 10
Kudos: 344





	the gentleness that comes

**Author's Note:**

> “We have not touched the stars,  
> nor are we forgiven, which brings us back  
> to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes,  
> not from the absence of violence, but despite  
> the abundance of it.”
> 
> ― Richard Siken

1

The first time Joe drew Nicky was after their first death.

He was still Yusuf al-Kaysani and Nicky was just an unnamed Frank. They'd clashed and died clumsily on each other's swords in an entirely unspectacular way. Yusuf woke hours later, a gasp of air rattling from lungs that hadn't worked properly for too long. 

When he stands again, he's surrounded by bodies, friends and foes alike. He looks for the body of the Frank that he knows died right next to him (that he knows killed him too, he tries not to think about that), but he can't seem to find a match. 

That gets shifted to the side as he sees the carnage in the city. The Franks had overwhelmed them and now they were slaughtering everyone in the city. Fire burned in Yusuf’s belly, as hot and fierce as those that raged in the city itself. 

He meets up with a group of fellow Fatimids still fighting even if it feels like the world is crashing in around them. They're pushed back and barricade themselves in one of the mosques, sweaty and scared. 

Yusuf tries to sleep, but each time he closes his eyes he sees that Frank, walking the streets of Jerusalem, blood on his boots, a tremble in his hands. 

It’s not until days later when they’re shuffled out of Jerusalem to Asqalan, trading surrender for their lives (Yusuf is not even sure his life is worth putting up for bargain anymore) when he has a moment of relative peace. Free from the fighting, he can sit and process everything, he weeps for the lives lost, for his own life thrown away but restored for some unknown reason. He closes his eyes and sees the Frank who also weeps. There is something beautiful about it, striking to Yusuf, as much as he hates the man and all that he stands for, all that he brought. _What do you have to weep for?_ He wants to shout at the man, to stab him through the chest so many times that maybe he will not get up again.

The image haunts him until he commits it to paper, hastily, and with little care. As soon as he’s done, he wants to tear it apart or toss it into the street, but instead, he folds it neatly and tucks it away somewhere safe. 

(He lost it eventually, as with many things, much to Nicky’s later disappointment. Joe tells him it kept him company during the Battle of Ascalon that followed soon after, but he can’t remember when exactly he’d lost it.

“You thought I was a Frank.” Nicky says a gleam in his eye and smile on his lips. It’s not a question and they’ve both had this conversation before several times. Nicky finds some strange amusement from the fact.

“You were all Franks to us,” Joe shrugs. “All smelly, unbathed Franks.” 

Nicky laughs, “You’re not too wrong about the ‘unbathed’ part.”

“Don’t worry, the drawing stunk as much as you did.” 

Nicky punches his arm and they both laugh.)

2

The second time Joe drew Nicky was not quite as eventful as the first time. 

By that time Yusuf learned that he did not age and that death did not stick to him. He also knew that there were rumblings from the west, a new tide of men rolling in to eventually crash against their shores.

He still dreams of the man.

Wonders if he will also answer the call to arms as Yusuf knows he will eventually. There’s little else in the world that he knows and little else he can imagine doing with his deathless body. One of him could count for many and save many lives. Or at least he hopes.

He doesn’t want to think of the coming bloodshed. He’s still haunted by the blood of innocents during the last crusade, the bodies piled up high outside the city, the synagogue’s burning. He may be immortal, or something close to it, but he still feels anxious, pacing like a tiger trapped in a cage.

He draws- he does it a lot now, to kill time or to distract from other things- and he’s gotten better at it over the years. He’s not paying attention to what his hand is doing after the first few sketches, but when he looks down the man from his dreams is there on the page, staring back at him. 

This one he does crumple up and toss aside. He wants to be free of him and this curse that has plagued him. That man has blood on his hands, the blood of Yusuf’s kin, he’s not worthy of the time Yusuf’s brain seems to dedicate to him, no matter how handsome he might find him.

At that thought, he silently pads over to retrieve the drawing, judging himself for his actions as he unfurls it as best he can to look once again at the man that plagues his dreams. 

(Joe remembers throwing that one out soon after, too disgusted to hold onto it very long.

“You thought I was handsome way back then.” Nicky looks at Joe, a smug smile plastered across his face.

Joe shoots him a scowl, with no fire behind it. “Don’t worry, opinions can change!”

Nicky chuckles and leans in close, his breath a comforting, familiar caress against Joe’s cheek. “It’s okay, Joe. I thought you were handsome back then too.” He presses a kiss, feather-light to the corner of Joe’s lips.)

3

The third time was during the start of their _something_. 

They are still just barely friends, barely able to even understand each other, but Yusuf knows without a doubt that he is bewitched by this man. 

He cannot count how many times they have killed each other before they finally gave up, all their hatred exhausted along with their bodies, but now that he looks at the man- Nicolo was his name, foreign on his tongue, yet perfect all the same- he wants nothing more than to protect him.

Nicolo doesn’t _need_ protection, he knows this better than anyone else in the world. Nicolo is strong and deadly with a blade and Yusuf has been at the end of it, seen his death to it, a staggering amount of times. At the start of their unsteady friendship, he’d once stabbed Yusuf in the stomach on reflex when he reached for what Nicolo thought was a blade. (It was his waterskin, Yusuf would reveal after gasping a new breath when the wound healed. Nicolo would babble out apologies, first in his language, and then brokenly in Yusuf’s.)

They take turns keeping watch once they trust each other enough. (It’s not like they can kill each other, so it feels like an act on principle alone.) And that night the chill of the desert is particularly biting even with a fire going.

Nicolo turns in his sleep, clutching the threadbare blanket closer to his body and Yusuf wants nothing more than to curl up next to him and share his body heat. (He is also cold, Yusuf thinks to justify his impulses, it would do them both good.) Instead, he grips his own blanket, trying to ignore the chill in his bones and the sleeping man on the ground. 

He manages one of the two. 

Nicolo eventually turns in his sleep, facing towards Yusuf almost like even in sleep he has to keep his eye on him. And it's thoroughly distracting. 

There's something intoxicating about seeing Nicolo's face so unguarded, almost peaceful, almost beautiful. He wants to reach out and touch, commit every detail to memory. The urge burns so steadily under his skin that it startles Yusuf, wondering if he is in fact possessed. 

It becomes harder and harder to ignore so instead of following the urge, he busies his hands with paper and pen. He takes to it with fervor, letting the tip of his reed pen act as his hands, tracing over the contours of Nicolo's face with a reverence that almost frightens him. 

He knows he should cast the drawing into the flames or bury it in the sand to never be seen again. If Nicolo were to find it he's not sure how he would react, but Yusuf does not really want to test their boundaries any more than they already are. 

Still, he can't bring himself to destroy it, as if destroying the drawing would hurt the subject of it all the same, so he hides it away along with his feelings and his impulses to be unearthed at a different time.

(“I did see that one,” Nicky declares, almost proud. “It fell out of your pack when you bartered with some merchant. I pretended I did not notice.” 

“Oh yeah?” Joe props himself up on his elbow, eyes tracing the profile of Nicky’s face next to him. It marvels him how after all this time they can still find out new things from each other. He wonders what past him would think if he could tell him that eventually, he would be lucky enough to explore all of Nicolo, not just with his eyes, but his hands and mouth, and Nicolo’s body would sing for him. “What did you think?”

Nicky rolls over to meet Joe’s gaze, his hair is tousled in a way that Joe finds both thrilling and adorable. 

“I remember being embarrassed.”

Joe scoffs. “You were embarrassed by _a lot_ back then.” 

“I was very sheltered,” Nicky sounds petulant and tugs the blanket over his chest and clutches it tightly as if hiding his virtue, but there is still a smile in his voice. 

“And very closeted,” Joe adds, nudging him with a knee under the covers.

Nicky laughs, “Yes, very closeted.” He rolls onto his back again, face sobering as he stares at the ceiling, eyes distant. His voice is unbearably soft, “I remember being embarrassed that such a handsome, talented man would draw someone such as I.” 

There’s the unspoken guilt, guilt that Joe has absolved him of many times over too many years. No amount of sweet nothings or dramatic love speeches could dispel the shadow in Nicky that always seemed to lurk around the corner. Joe’s tried many times. Nicky would always carry it like he would always carry his sword into battle like he would always carry Joe’s heart. 

“Of course I would,” Joe crawls over, on top of Nicky, making those distant eyes meet his. “You’re beautiful, Nicky.” 

He kisses Nicky, slow but searing as if trying to cauterize the reopened wound. Nicky’s breath catches in his throat, somehow still after several lifetimes being so sensitive to Joe’s touch, to his love, to his passion.

They choose to ignore the rest of the world just for that morning, even the pounding on the door and the yelling of Booker. 

At least until Andy kicked the door in.) 

4

The fourth time, they’re not alone. 

They’ve seen the two women in their dreams for years now, but they didn’t know anything about them or the dreams and why they had them. The best guess they’d come up with was that it was something like what they’d experienced before coming back together.

They sleep and the dream is remarkably familiar, the setting something they’re all too familiar with and the two women, coming closer and closer and-

There’s a sound- a twig snapping as loud as thunder crashing in the silence of the night- and both men dash upwards, swords in hand in an instant, alert and ready. They’re back to back, something that’s become as easy as breathing over the years, falling into stride with each other in battle. 

There’s movement and Yusuf lunges, swift and precise. It doesn’t connect but there’s a ruffle of clothing, movement in the dark and then- 

An ax, silent and swift as its wielder, connects with Nicolo’s sword where it would have landed in Yusuf’s head instead. Nicolo’s eyes burn fierce and he advances on the attacker, strikes unrelenting with his sword. 

Yusuf pivots, ready to join the attack on the axe wielder when a flash silver catches in the firelight, aimed towards Nicolo and Yusuf deflects the blow like his life depends on it. They know they cannot die, but that doesn’t make the thought of the other dying any better. They’re finally- _finally_ -together after navigating the intricate maze of Nicolo’s religious guilt and years of dancing around each other’s desires, they cannot breathe while the others apart, no matter how temporary the death.

And the fight devolves from there into a flurry of blades and clashing metal, until eventually the assailants win with an ax in Nicolo’s chest and a blade across Yusuf’s neck. 

Yusuf gasps a new breath and groans. He looks to his side for Nicolo and sighs in relief that the man is already awake and well and seems just as relieved when he glances at Yusuf. But then his eyes train forward, at something Yusuf hasn’t noticed yet, body stiff. He follows the gaze.

“You guys are pretty good,” the woman with the ax says. It’s slung over her shoulder almost like a reminder that yes, she will use it if she has to. The other woman sits next to her, wiping blood from her blade.

“You-!” Yusuf starts, he scrambles to get up, to find his weapon.

“Be still, Yusuf,” Nicolo says, calm and steady, and Yusuf’s body listens. “They’re like us. They’re the ones from our dreams.”

And he’s right, now that Yusuf takes a moment to look at them without the haze of wanting to avenge Nicolo’s not-so-permanent death.

So they sit, and they talk. (Their names are Andy and Quynh and they’re immortal also.) And there are non-apologies for attacking them (“You did startle us in the middle of the night while we were sleeping. _And_ you attacked Nicolo.”) and non-apologies for the women attacking back (“You struck first, of course we’d fight back.”) before they settle into an awkward silence.

They join together and travel together, somewhat reluctantly at first, but four is better than two and the women have many more years of experience than the both of them and understand a little bit more about their immortality.

It’s almost a year later that they’re camping for the night, enjoying a meal Nicolo made for the four of them that Yusuf draws them. Time and battle have forged their bonds closer, so where before they had fought with blades, they ate and laughed together. It feels like the closest thing Yusuf has had to family for a long, long time and seeing Nicolo so happy makes it all the more worth it.

He draws the three of them, smiling and relaxed despite everything.

Nicolo looks at him as he works, firelight dancing in his eyes and a smile on his lips and Yusuf feels safe. Yusuf feels at home.

(“Those were good times,” Nicky says quietly. They’re lying on the couch, room dark beside the flicker of the TV, muted during a commercial. Nicky is reclined against Joe’s chest and Joe’s arms are wrapped protectively around him. The mention of Quynh always darkens the mood. Those _were_ good times. Their group always felt like a family no matter the time, no matter which immortal stood alongside them, but Quynh had been something else. Something special.

Andy was never the same and that hurt almost as much as it hurt to lose Quynh.

Joe and Nicky could never shake the guilt they felt for not being there when they needed the help most. And how they couldn’t find her even after decades of searching.

“What happened to that one, Joe?” Nicky asks, voice like a soft nudge on his shoulder to keep him in the present.

“I gave it to Andy,” he says, carding his hand through Nicky’s hair absentmindedly.

“After…?” Nicky trails off as if mentioning the event will conjure it back into memory. 

“Before. I wonder what she did with it?”

He thinks of Andy and her rage immediately following her freedom, that over decades turned into a storm of heartbreak when their searches turned up nothing.

Maybe his drawing had been a casualty during that turbulent time. Maybe it was still tucked away safely in Andy’s cave or one of her many hiding places. (If anyone knew how to preserve something so old, it was Andy.) Maybe time had turned it to dust like so many, many things.)

5

The fifth time-

Well, it’s not the fifth time, or the sixth, or even the hundredth time. Joe’s lost count of how many times he’s drawn Nicky.

But this time… They’re in Genoa, celebrating their anniversary. (The anniversary of _what_ is a hot topic of debate between Andy and Booker. Andy claims they have at least 5 different ones they celebrate and she's somewhat right.)

Joe strives endlessly to make it a perfect trip. Hotel as nice as they can afford, with a view that Nicky will appreciate. He's already carefully vetted all of their favorite haunts, making sure it hasn't been too long since their last visit and if the owners would recognize them if it had been. The last thing he wants is an awkward encounter to dampen the trip with someone questioning them. (It’s happened before, the last time they were there.)

But it's fine and everything goes smoothly which is a rarity in its own right for them.

It's the last day of their vacation and Joe is awake well before Nicky. They don't have to be out of the room for several hours, so they have time. 

He opens his sketchbook and flips through the pages filled with memories- their memories- the last few pages filled with scattered drawings from their trip. He's drawn the harbor and the view from their hotel, the fountain at Piazza De Ferrari. (Nicky had teased him and called him a tourist all while draped over his shoulder, watching in rapt attention.) 

He's not drawn Nicky the entire time and it's both a record and a crime.

So now it seems fitting that he corrected this mistake.

It’s hard to keep his eyes off Nicky long enough to focus on the drawing itself. He thinks of ages passed, when they first started their journey together when the sight of Nicky sleeping had disarmed him so thoroughly and left him questioning. The sight is still as powerful now as it was then, but now the only question in his mind is how he managed to be so lucky to have the love of such a wonderful man. 

His eyes follow the line of Nicky’s form on the bed, pencil mirroring with motion, to the expanse of Nicky’s chest, exposed from the covers falling away at some point during his turning in bed. His skin is smooth and untouched in a way that Joe finds both alluring and frustrating. 

He’d spent the night before marking Nicky’s skin with his mouth, worshiping him until the skin turned raw and red. But their immortality heals them just as quickly as he places them and Joe wants nothing more than for the marks to linger so everyone could see that Nicky was his like a brand on his skin. But that's not the case, and he knows he doesn't need the validation from it. Because as surely as he loves Nicky, he will let the world know one way or another, even if he has to shout it from the rooftops for the entire world to hear.

Joe’s finished by the time that Nicky wakes up and instead of hiding it away like many of his other drawings, he leaves it out on the table. (Because he knows Nicky likes to see them now, that he finds satisfaction in Joe’s perpetual infatuation with his form.)

Nicky doesn’t say anything when he sees it. He doesn’t have to. There’s a smile on his lips the rest of the morning.

(He still has the sketchbook, tucked away safely in one of their safehouses along with piles of others. The oldest are yellowing, pages turning brittle in age, but it’s easier in more modern times to preserve them than it was in the past. 

The pages are filled with memories, not just of Nicky and Joe, but of everyone. Like their own little family photo collection from times that even history will not remember.

He’ll show them to Nile eventually, and any immortal that comes after that. And maybe when a time comes that Joe and Nicky are no longer around someone will find the sketchbooks and they will know them and their story and their love.

And if that is all that remains of them at the end of the eternity, Joe thinks, then it would all be worth it.)

**Author's Note:**

> There was originally a +1 scene (3 different versions) that no matter how many passes I wasn't content with, so I cut it. I may add it if my brain ever wants to cooperate with me writing again soon.


End file.
